Wine. Let's put aside the violent white wine rage, the blackened teeth, the alarming rate at which it makes even the most proper of us spew good lies and nasty truths in one single sentence: It's beautiful stuff, vino.

Now, as a lady, I select my wine the proper way: Pretty label, under a fiver, ooh, three for a tenner! Sold. Nothing - not even dress socks and summer sandals - upsets me more than the poncy wankers who deliberate over the wine list, chatting to the sommelier about vintage and tilting the glass to see the "legs". Please. The purpose here is to get me drunk. Period.

But as I get older (27 again next month), I'm starting to think that maybe I should know my Pinots from my Cabernets. Like with men, there's a point in your life when you start looking for quality over quantity - even in your tipple.